Many of us first meet the black bear in childhood stories - the ones our parents read to us before bed. Or perhaps we met it in the form of a stuffed companion, that soft teddy - thanks to Theodore Roosevelt - which we clutched tight when thunder rolled outside our window. If you were like me, you also grew up believing the black bear was a ferocious beast to be feared, a creature of dark woods and danger.

The truth is, until I began wildlife photography, I knew almost nothing about animals - let alone the differences between bears themselves. Despite its reputation, black bears don’t have much interest in eating people. Excellent climbers and swimmers, they forage on fruits, grass, nuts, fish, invertebrates, and occasionally small to mid-sized mammals.  Their aggressive reputation is often misplaced, for it is the grizzly bear that is a much larger and more temperamental species. That isn’t to say that we should be welcoming black bear encounters on our hikes. While attacks on humans are rare - whether defensive or predatory - they do happen. 

So where can we expect to find black bears? Across Northeastern America, black bears wander through dense forests and coastal swamps, while out West they inhabit wooded mountain slopes and valleys. They’re perhaps the most famous hibernator, fattening up for the winter and sleeping in a hollow tree or even a snow bank. For most of the year, they live alone, except in spring when a wandering male finds a mate. Afterward, the female raises her cubs by herself - protective, patient, and fearless. And despite what their name suggests, not all black bears are black. Some shimmer in shades of brown, blond, cinnamon, even blue-gray or white - as if nature couldn’t resist painting them in every hue of the forest.

One thing, however, has remained constant: my view that the black bear is among God’s most majestic creatures. To cross paths with one in the wild is to glimpse something ancient - something that demands both respect and reverence.

From the beginning, finding and photographing a black bear was one of my greatest goals. What I didn’t realize then was how elusive they truly are. Even in regions with dense bear populations, sightings are far rarer than most imagine. The black bear, shy and solitary by nature, tends to avoid people whenever it can. That’s why, when I visited Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado, I was disappointed not to encounter one. Had I done my research beforehand, I would’ve known that only about twenty to thirty adult black bears live within the park - while the state’s total population hovers around 17,000 to 20,000. The only traces I found of them were faint: a few paw prints, and the feces left along the trails.

My first real encounter came later — in Ramapo Mountain State Forest in New Jersey, a place home to roughly 3000 bears. When I set foot there, my intentions were clear: I wanted to find a black bear, no matter how slim the odds. My first clue came early in what would end up being a 9 mile journey: fresh scat on the trail. Looking back, a seasoned tracker might have stayed close, sensing that the bear could be nearby. But doing so would have meant “trailblazing,” venturing off the marked path - and that’s not something I recommend, especially in bear country. The forest was also full of dogs, many off-leash - a habit I’ve always disliked in owners. Their barking and running, I imagined, must have driven any nearby bears deep into the woods, away from the commotion. So my girlfriend and I pressed on.

Approximately six and half miles later we’d come across our next clue.  As we were crossing the bend of a lake we saw two hikers stood at the edge, staring out at the water. When I see something like this it’s usually a good sign that something is there. As we approached, they motioned to us - “A bear!” And sure enough, out on the water, about a hundred yards away, a black bear was swimming. Its massive head moved in calm rhythm with each stroke, the sunlight glinting off its wet fur. My heart raced. It was my first time seeing one in the wild. And yet, even as awe filled me, another feeling crept in: greed. I wanted more. I wanted closer.

We tracked its movement from shore as it swam in slow arcs, sometimes drifting toward our side, then back toward a small island near the middle of the lake. My first plan was to reach the cliff overlooking the water, hoping to photograph it from above. We hiked twenty minutes to get there, only to find the path choked with dense brush. Dangerous. We turned back. 

When we returned to our original spot, the bear was still there - still swimming, still graceful. Then, suddenly, it veered right, heading toward a small clearing only a few minutes’ walk away. I told my girlfriend to stay back while I tried to get a vantage point from a nearby shed built into the hillside. I ran head in excitement, irresponsibly leaving behind my bear horn. When I reached the ledge, the water below was empty. No bear. I waved across the lake, signaling to my girlfriend. “Where is it?” She pointed frantically at the water. Yet, I saw nothing. So I called her on the phone. “Do you see the bear” I asked. 

“It’s… climbing! It’s climbing where you are!” She explained. 

“What? You’re telling me it’s coming on land?”

“Yes. I see it - it’s definitely climbing” she said. 

I hung up, heart pounding. The forest was silent except for the birds chirping. Then I heard it: the rustle of branches. Out from the brush emerged a black bear - massive, wet, and beautiful. I stepped back, keeping what I thought was a safe distance, and raised my camera.

The bear sniffed the air, curious, its eyes now staring at me. I took a shot. Then what I wasn’t expecting - it began to cross the trail, right in front of me, no further than ten feet away! My heart stopped. The moment teetered between beauty and danger. I stayed still, breathing shallowly, camera slightly trembling in my hands. I did not seem to think that this moment could go wrong at any point, and I did not back away.  The bear paused mid-trail, turned its head, and looked straight at me. For a few seconds, our eyes met - ten seconds that felt like a lifetime. Fear. Reverence. Gratitude. Then it turned and disappeared into the trees.

Even now, when I think back on that day, I feel the same quiet awe. That encounter wasn’t just another photograph for me - it was a conversation without words, a fleeting exchange between myself and one of God’s oldest creatures. It’s a moment that no other person could say they had.  

Later on, as a park ranger guided us back to the trailhead, I witnessed another treat: a mother black bear with her two cubs. They were foraging near a cluster of bird feeders, a known hotspot where this family of bears often comes to scavenge for easy meals. What astonished me most was how high the feeders hung - at least fifty feet up in the trees - yet that didn’t deter them. The cubs, with effortless grace, clawed their way up the rough bark, climbing toward the branches where they could rest while their mother watched from below. It was a beautiful sight. And yet, as I stood there, camera in hand, I felt something different.

This encounter, though tender and heartwarming, didn’t stir me the way my first meeting had. It would take another encounter, this time in Cades Cove within Great Smoky Mountains National Park, for me to understand why.

Cades Cove is an isolated valley nestled deep within Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The park is home to roughly 1,500 black bears, and the cove is widely regarded as the best place to see them. The scenic loop, a narrow road circling the valley, draws visitors hoping to catch a glimpse of wildlife moving between the trees and fields.

Even with a government shutdown and my visit falling on a weekday, the cove was far from empty. Cars crept along the bends, engines humming softly beneath the calls of crows and the sigh of wind through the grass. No matter the circumstance, people are drawn here to this quiet pocket of wilderness for the same reason: hoping to see the black bear.

Funny enough, during my five days exploring the park and tracing the roads through Cades Cove, I saw only one black bear. It happened one morning as I approached a stretch of forest where traffic had slowed to a stop. Up ahead, a small crowd had gathered, phones and cameras raised toward the shadowed trees. I parked, stepped out, and followed their gaze. About thirty yards away, in the dim light beneath the trees, a medium-sized bear - likely a young one - was foraging among the leaves. The air was thick with stillness, the forest holding its breath as shutters clicked and whispers passed through the line of onlookers. And yet, even as I watched, something felt different. I was grateful to see another black bear, but it didn’t stir that same pulse of wonder I’d felt during my first encounter.

Afterwards, I had realized — that first meeting had been more than a sighting - it was a pursuit, carrying with it danger, mystery, and an intimacy that only arises when it’s just you and the wild, with no crowd and no distance between. There had been a chase, a spark of uncertainty, and the thrill of facing something that could not be controlled. In that sense, I think I finally understood what hunters mean when they speak of the chase. For me, the pursuit ends not with a rifle but with the soft click of a shutter. The reward isn’t a trophy, rather it’s a photograph, a frozen heartbeat of connection between two living beings. Even so, I never forgot the power that stood before me that day. The black bear— though the smallest of North America’s bear species—can exceed four hundred pounds, and the one I saw at Ramapo was easily that size. It was a humbling moment: standing face to face with such strength, having no gun, no barrier, no control. I realized then how fragile we truly are in the presence of nature’s force, how easily the outcome could have shifted if the bear had chosen differently. That experience made me understand just how many of God’s creatures surpass us in physical power. Perhaps that is why humankind sought to tame the ones we could—with tools, with weapons, with distance. But when stripped of those things, we are reminded of our place - at the mercy of His creation. It is a reminder that beauty and danger often share the same shadow.